by Frazer Lee
The axeman grabbed the driver’s ankle and dragged him whimpering from the car.
Despite being much smaller than the driver, he seemed to possess Herculean strength beneath the folds of his coat. When the driver tried to wriggle free of his grasp, the axeman swung the axe sickeningly into his kneecap, splaying open the skin and splintering the bone. With another blow the driver’s leg was severed at the knee joint, blood gushing over the carcass of his dead lover and splashing up the side of the car. The man in the coat stood motionless and looked down at his quarry, bloodied axe by his side.
Pleading for his life and writhing in agony the driver dragged himself back across the tarmac, grazing the flesh on his buttocks, lower back and hands as he did so. The axeman moved slowly towards him and tucked one foot under the petrified driver’s chin. Suddenly he kicked out, throwing the driver’s head against the hard surface of the road with a queasy thud. Then, he raised the axe high in the air and brought it down on the driver’s neck. The metal of the axe burst through flesh and bone, completely severing the driver’s head. The sharp sound of the blade hitting the tarmac caused all the curtains on Acacia Drive to twitch in a perversely silent Mexican wave.
Turning his back on David’s watchful gaze and moving over to the car, the axeman appeared to be chuckling to himself. He leaned inside and looked at the glowing dashboard. Slowly and precisely, he switched off the car stereo. The neon glow winked out. The relentless thudding of the music was stopped dead in its tracks like the lovers who had, moments ago, been coupling to its beat.
The figure stepped back from the car. He surveyed the scene, scraping some flesh from his shoe. Then he looked at the twitching curtains of Acacia Drive, behind them the witnesses to his keeper of the peace grand guignol. He removed his hat so the curtain twitchers could get a proper look at his face. So that they’d know not to make any noise. So that they’d be good.
The figure turned and looked straight into David’s eyes, smiling. David looked back at him with the same satisfied grin. The man with the axe had the same nondescript features.
David was staring at his own face.
As peace and quiet returned to the street at two fifteen AM, all the curtains twitched closed in Acacia Drive and were still.
Dave awoke, somewhat groggily, at six thirty. His mouth was so dry. Nothing a nice cup of tea wouldn’t sort out. Oh, and some porridge to soothe the acidic gurgle in his belly. Must buy some more coal tar soap, he thought to himself as he poured his hot bath.
Dressed and full of breakfast, Dave stepped outside carrying a broom and a dustpan. The blossom petals had dried slightly during the night, many of their pink petals turning a dirty brown colour. Dave glanced at the police lights flashing across the road as he began sweeping the porch.
The police asked him if he’d heard anything the night before. There’d been a terrible incident just over the road from his house. They were doing door-to-door inquiries but nobody had seen or heard anything at all. Could he help? Had he perhaps heard a disturbance in the wee hours?
Oh no, he said. Heard nothing at all, he said. You see; silence was golden in Acacia Drive.
Just like his poor dear mother used to say.
The Minus Touch
“Have you seen my Mistress?”
Jake frowned at the piss-stinking old man. What did he just say? The old man doubled up and grabbed Jake’s hand, hard as he leaned in closer.
“Have you seen her eyes?”
The old guy’s stench penetrated Jake’s nostrils like a leprous tongue. Urinals and shit and gum disease. Retching, Jake wrestled his hand free and stumbled on down the street. When he’d put some distance between himself and the tramp, he looked back at the street corner. The old man had disappeared, probably to curl up and die in some alleyway. Good riddance, thought Jake, and ploughed on towards the bar.
Strains of a song, like slowly shattering glass, boomed from within. “There’s too much blood in my alcohol…” They were playing his tune. Jake stepped inside and stomped up to the bar. Double whiskey, to rid himself of the vagrant’s stench, and a beer chaser because… Just because. He coughed, bad breath coming back to him. Better make it a triple whiskey.
About an hour later, and Jake was feeling nicely inebriated. He’d been thinking about his week. The office had been pretty uneventful, apart from that one particularly pointless meeting where he’d nearly spoken out and gotten himself fired. He was surely on his way out anyway. The boss had seen him slugging back a glass of alka seltzer at his desk that morning. Monday was the new Friday. But now it really was Friday, and he was slugging back cool golden bourbon. He suddenly thought about calling his girlfriend, asking her what she was up to. Probably out with the girls. He drained his glass, ordered another. Maybe later.
His head was swimming when he tumbled out of the bar and onto the street. The air was cold, crisp. He smiled against it from within his cosy whiskey cocoon.
“Taxi?”
Jake looked around for a moment. The word sounded familiar.
“You want taxicab?”
He located the source of the word. A heavy-set Jamaican guy was leaning out the window of an old metallic brown car, gesturing with his thumb at the back seat. He didn’t need a second invitation. Jake’s smile widened and he tumbled into the back of the car. The big guy revved the engine, and spoke to Jake’s reflection in the mirror.
“Nightcap or homeward bound?”
Nightcap? Jake never could say no. But no, he’d probably had enough by now and he’d spent more than…
“Or you want to see ladies?”
Ooh. Now, there was a thought. Ladies.
“Whadkindofladiiiess?” he slurred.
The big guy pulled the car out onto the tarmac, chuckling.
“Pretty ladies, pretty girls,” he replied, his deep exotic baritone emphasizing just how pretty these women must be, “These kind of girls you can touch, no problem, no questions asked, know what I mean?”
“Driveonssirrr…” said Jake, settling back into the musty old leather upholstery as Barry White suddenly exploded out of the car stereo. He sang along, as the city lights zipped past him, becoming a liquid-sepia blur.
Jake was falling to his death when he woke up, his plummeting dream stopped short by the strong arms of his driver. The big guy must have opened the door then caught him before he’d rolled headfirst into the gutter. Damn. Now he’d have to tip.
“Wake up man. We’re here,” said the Jamaican, pulling him to his feet.
“Where’s here?”
A loud intermittent buzzing sound brought Jake back to his senses. It sounded annoyingly like his alarm clock. He looked up at the sound. A tacky neon sign flickered and buzzed at him urgently like a call to action. ‘BAR’. He looked around at the deserted street. He had no idea where in the city he was. The drive had sobered him up a little. Peering at the black doorway, Jake asked the Jamaican how much he owed him.
“Time for that nightcap,” he said as he settled up.
“And some pretty girls,” the big guy replied, all gold teeth.
“Heh, yeah.” Jake put another note in the driver’s hand. “Wait for me here will you? I’ll never get another car this time of night.”
“No problem.”
Jake inhaled deeply through his nostrils as he entered the bar. It smelled, quite simply, of pussy. The unmistakable, luxuriously soft scent of females. A huge doorman with fingers like fat cigars offered to take his jacket. Jake refused. The doorman grunted and led him over to a velveteen booth, then left him alone. A candle and a menu rested on a glass table in front of him. Jake sat down and looked around. Other men in other booths, whispering in the dark with girls who giggled appreciatively.
And such girls. Not one of them a day over twenty, and all dressed in shimmering little dresses. God, he was thirsty.
“Thirsty?”
A young woman had sat down by his side, her frame so slight he hadn’t even noticed. Her perfume washed over him. She w
as the sweetest thing he’d smelled all night. She was the sweetest thing he’d smelled, ever. Her tiny doll’s hand passed him the menu. He took it, and began reading down the list of single malts and bourbons. The prices were astronomical. Glancing at her body, his eyes lingered on her pert breasts pushing through the flimsy low-cut dress. A necklace glimmered against her impossibly white skin.
“I’ll have a glass of…”
“Ah, we don’t serve drinks by the glass here sir. Bottles only.”
She giggled. Her voice was joy itself. A faint Eastern European accent, folded into the elegant velvet of good English language tuition.
“You sound posh.”
“You like that, sir?”
“Oh yes. Yes I do.”
He looked at her face. Green eyes, like a cat’s, framed by fair hair that tumbled playfully onto her shoulders. Soft skin - unblemished save for a tiny pimple that a subtle layer of make-up was keeping at bay. Her mouth was small and pink. It looked like an itch he needed to scratch.
“Alright then, we’ll share a bottle of Jack.”
She gestured at the giant doorman and seconds later a curvy waitress came over to the table. Jake checked her out as she poured him a drink. She was plainer than his current guest, and a little too chunky for him. He preferred petite chicks. Taking a sip, he asked for a second glass. The waitress looked a question at doll-hands.
“Oh, I don’t drink whiskey, only champagne.”
Jake snorted with laughter. What a frigging scam.
“Let me guess. You don’t serve that by the glass either?”
They didn’t, and it was not long until he and the girl were halfway down their respective bottles, making small talk and laughing overenthusiastically at each other’s jokes. She said her name was Francesca. The word sounded incredibly sexy in her accent and he asked her to repeat it several times, each time eliciting playful giggles. Then she moved closer to him. As she did so, he caught a tantalizing glimpse of her inner thigh, the side swell of her breast.
“Would you like to go somewhere quieter?”
He picked up his glass and drained the last drops of whiskey. Holding his gaze, she poured him another. Then she ran her tiny index finger around the inside of his glass and pressed it to his lips. His mouth opened in a silent, “Oh,” and he sucked on her fingertip hungrily. Her taste, and that of the whiskey, combined then separated until he could taste only her.
“We can take the drinks with us.”
Her expression had changed, become more serious somehow, and urgent. The girlish giggling had stopped and she was leading him away. Away to somewhere at the back of the room, beyond the booths and the giant doorman.
They tumbled into a dark room, onto a low leather armchair, kissing as she poured whiskey and champagne into his hands and his hair, then his crotch. Jake shivered as he felt her mouth around him, encasing him in rubber. She mounted him, light as a feather. Her clothing fell away and he sucked the alcohol from her flesh as she pushed against him aggressively. His hands were dripping with champagne and sex. As his body climaxed, she took his index finger in her mouth and bit down hard. He grappled for the back of her neck with his free hand and pulled her into him, shuddering with pleasure as he spiraled down.
Down. Rain pounded on his forehead, hard. Jake opened his eyes disbelievingly. Cold sharp raindrops hit his eyeballs, backlit by a streetlight, miles above him. He rolled over and clutched his stomach, vomiting into the gutter that yawned inches from his mouth. Steam rose from the contents of his stomach as they slithered through the grille. Where the hell was he?
He tried to stand, but his head was spinning so much he could only crawl over to a boarded-up doorway. He’d shelter here for a while, then try again. Then he felt the doorway creak open slightly behind him, and crawled inside through the rotting beams.
He was in a derelict building that looked like it had once been a shop and smelled like a sewer. Pulling himself up onto some crushed cardboard boxes and moldy drapes, he felt a sharp pain in his index finger. He held it up to take a look. An angry welt throbbed there where Francesca had bitten him. Bitch. It’d be agony to use the computer on Monday. The frigging Jamaican hadn’t waited for him either. Panicking suddenly, he reached into his jacket pocket with his good hand. Gone. Phone, wallet, small change. Bitch, she’d pay for this.
Then he caught it again. Her scent – soft and moist and intoxicating. She was all over him. He sniffed and licked and bit at his own skin as every nerve in his body remembered her. Tearing open his clothes, he orgasmed painfully, peaking and starting over and over again. His seed coated his hand, soothing the bloody weal on his index finger. For days he lay like this, feasting on his own fluids and excrement, remembering her touch until he was utterly spent.
The ghost sound of her voice pulled him outside, onto cold streets. He looked for the bar everywhere, listening out for the alarm buzz of the neon sign. But he couldn’t find her anywhere. He tumbled into crowds of despair.
Faces blurred at him through his bleeding eyes, recoiling from his stench. Ice formed on his ragged clothes over the dark wet surfaces of his excretions. He tumbled around a corner and slammed into a young man. His vague features looked friendly, open.
“Have you seen my Mistress?” asked Jake, desperately.
The young man frowned at him, his face all shadows.
Jake doubled up in pain and grabbed the young man’s hand, hard. The welt on his finger now black, as if frostbitten. He leaned in closer.
“Have you seen her eyes?”
Tinsel
Tom’s breath fogged up his window then disappeared like a ghost. He tried again, but no luck – the frost clinging to the outside of the windowpane refused to melt. He wished his parents would just go to bed. He’d been kneeling here on his bed, leaning on the windowsill for what seemed like an eternity. Then - footsteps on the stairs. Action stations.
It was Mum, here to tuck Tom into bed. He lay rigidly still, breathing heavily with his arms by his side. He felt his mother’s shadow falling over him as she leaned in to kiss him softly on the head. Then she grabbed him and tickled him. He let out a loud giggle. How on earth did she do that every time? Anyone else would’ve fallen for it and believed he was asleep, but not Mum with her amazing radar skills.
They shared a laugh about it and she kissed him again and turned off the light. He listened intently as Mum closed the door and went back downstairs to the living room. ‘Must be wrapping my presents right now,’ he thought, his ears conjuring sounds of foil paper and sticky tape.
This was the most crucial part of Christmas Eve for Tom – waiting for Mum, Dad and Big Sis to come to bed. Then he had to leave it for just long enough to make sure they were asleep, without nodding off himself and missing his chance. Still listening intently, he remembered how he’d bungled the job two years ago, when he was just eight. He was older now, and wiser – an expert in nocturnal maneuvers. One day he’d be a secret agent…
Tom awoke with a jolt and shivered. His bedclothes had made a bid for freedom, leaving just his pajamas to protect him. He grabbed his alarm clock, the luminous face teasing him with the time. Four o’clock am. Oh, flipping brilliant, he’d nodded off and been asleep for hours. But there was still time. He’d better move fast and silent, like that amazing ninja he’d seen on the telly.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and ever so carefully stood up. Without a sound, he crept over to the door and removed his dressing gown from the door handle. Tom loved his dressing gown – it was fleecy and so cosy, especially good for a nippy night like this. Careful now, this was where it could all go horribly wrong. One false move and he’d wake the whole household. He reached out for the door handle, his arm rehearsing the exact distance he could open the door before it creaked. Slowly, slowly, he pulled the door open, slipped sideways through the gap, grabbed the outside handle and closed the door behind him with the tiniest click.
Heart beating, Tom stood on the dark landing for a few se
conds, catching his breath. That was intense, his best ninja move ever. Satisfied he hadn’t woken his folks, he padded gently across the landing towards the stairs. The soft, soundless carpet beneath his feet, he allowed his mind to wander a little. He began thinking of the prize that awaited him at the end of his mission, remembering how wonderful his presents had looked under the tree last year. They’d gleamed in their shiny wrapping paper like treasure, begging him to squeeze them. He’d picked up the biggest first, giving it a gentle rock to hear and feel what was inside. It didn’t take a genius to realize it was the games console he’d wanted. The box had matched the dimensions of the one in the shop exactly – he should know, he’d examined the display case at the supermarket enough times while Mum spent an age at the deli counter. Tom felt a rush of panic. Had he dropped enough hints about the music player? Maybe she hadn’t noticed during her massive quest for breaded products and two-for-one deals on the way to the checkout. Maybe he hadn’t been clear enough about the colour of the headphones – oh no, what a disaster. His pace quickened as he reached the foot of the stairs.